


the last of the real ones

by mondaycore



Series: the last of the real ones [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate universe - Mafia, Gunplay, M/M, Minor Character Death, Organized Crime, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 23:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20647280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: Max has always found the nickname a little fanciful. A little too Hollywood. But he can understand why they call him that, especially now that they’re face-to-face, confined in the same room together. Charles Leclerc. The Red Prince.





	the last of the real ones

**Author's Note:**

> blue monday anon, back at it again because there's nothing dumber but more fun than cliché mafia AU, amirite. 
> 
> warning for violence, minor character death, dubious consent, poor weapons maintenance and safety compliance, and the author just Saying Words about crime that Sound Cool. title from the one, the only, fall out boy.
> 
> the absolutely incredible graphic provided by [singlemalter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter) PLEASE check them out they're incredible.

(graphic by [singlemalter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter))

The room is tasteful but almost stereotypical in its appointment, dark wood and leather and velvet, crystal vases, marble sculptures. Old World underworld down to the tapestries shrouding the walls and portraits of Cosa Nostra past glaring balefully down, trapped for eternity in their ornate gilt frames.

At the end of a long, mirror-polished mahogany table sits the one they call _ Il Principe Rosso _.

Max has always found the nickname a little fanciful. A little too Hollywood. The reality of his world is not terribly romantic — less Marlon Brando and blood vendettas, more freezing one’s ass off at 2am in a motel off the motorway, hoping those two blundering dipshits that Haas call their best runners showed up _ this _time with the goods and without the whinging.

But Max can understand why they call him that, especially now that they’re face-to-face, confined in the same room together. Charles Leclerc. The Red Prince. He looks the part of syndicate royalty, dark hair and fair skin, his black suit razor-sharp, a silky crimson tie dripping from his throat down his crisp white shirt. He’s beautiful in a way Max finds hard to ignore, in the way a sculpture is beautiful, cold perfection, demanding the attention of all those around him while utterly indifferent to receiving it. And he’s impossibly young, too, for the position he has, though the hard edge in his pale eyes suggests a longstanding, intimate familiarity with the weight of a life held in the palm of his hand.

It just irks Max that they are of an age, except while _ he’s _ running around doing Marko and Christian’s dirty work, this man, this _ boy _ , is already the head of one of the oldest and most powerful houses in the city. Sure, Max has heard the rumors. All the stories about what this little prince has done to be sitting where he is, all those he’s lost, friends and family, while he alone came out the other end unscathed, the mad-dog ambition that burns in him, defying death itself. Some even say that he _ cannot _die.

But Max was never one for fairytales. He prefers to worry about more practical matters — the most pressing among them being being the revolver Charles is idly fidgeting with, clicking the cylinder around and around between his fingers like it’s a child’s toy. Most these days would prefer a semi-automatic pistol, something more modern, but this old-man’s weapon, this outlaw’s shooter, looks very at home in Charles’ hands. Despite wearing a young man’s face, Ferrari is still an old, staunchly traditional house.

There _is_ one rumor about Charles that Max doesn’t doubt at all, which is that every time Charles conducts a meeting, he has exactly one shot chambered for every person in the room with him. Because should things go wrong, well, he doesn’t need more than that to solve the problem. They say he’s that good, but privately, Max thinks it’s a bit cocky of him.

Regardless, Charles will have three bullets tonight. One for Max, one for Pierre Gasly, and one for a quiet young man by the name of Antonio Giovinazzi. 

Max knows Pierre because Toro Rosso is allied with Red Bull, has always provided them with a steady supply of more-or-less competent soldiers, wheelmen, and triggermen, in exchange for a cut of the profits. He and Pierre had actually been partnered up for a time. Pierre’s a nice enough guy, good for a drink at the pub, decent company on stakeouts, but when it came down to it, he was pathologically squeamish and unwilling to get his hands dirty. Their arrangement hadn’t lasted more than a few months before Pierre had been kicked back down the ladder to Toro Rosso with the understanding that anymore fuckups meant a one-way ticket upcountry.

Pierre is aware he’s on thin ice. That’s why he’s here tonight as Max’s second, despite knowing if this meeting goes wrong, he’s going to get himself killed. Probably not by Charles; Pierre has known Charles going way back, childhood friends — or more than friends? Max has never been able to figure it out — two thieves growing up together on the French Riviera. But Marko and Christian, if they get word of this, well, he and Pierre will both be up a creek without a paddle. 

Antonio, Max doesn’t know at all. But Max figures he’s Charles’ second, representing Alfa Romeo and their alliance with Ferrari. Kimi Räikkönen, Alfa’s boss, must be off doing … whatever he gets up to in his free time. Antonio looks like he barely knows why he’s here himself, just sits there frozen in his seat, trying and doing a very good job of blending into the background.

Some parts of this world _ are _ very Hollywood, this atmosphere of secrecy and convoluted who-you-know-not-what-you-know song and dance being one of them. Max personally finds it a colossal bullshit waste of time.

The clicking of the revolver’s cylinder winds down, clocklike, until Charles finally sets his weapon on the table and turns toward those gathered before him.

“Pierre, Antonio, always a pleasure,” he says in an elusively transcontinental accent. “And Max Verstappen, what an honor. Usually it’s Doctor Marko and Christian who request these meetings.” 

_ Because you’re too busy running their errands _, implied. It makes him angry because Charles isn’t even wrong. Max grits his teeth and forces himself to at least look pleasant.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Max says. 

“Do they even know you are here tonight?” Charles asks. 

“No,” Max says, grudgingly — caught out already, but he would have asked the same question, given the circumstances, and there’s no point in lying. Charles looks delighted by his answer, and the sly grin that spreads across his face transfigures him entirely, from marble statue to living boy. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” Charles says, winking. Max flushes angrily. “Personally, I always thought Marko and Christian were wasting your potential. For sure I thought you would have made _ sottocapo _ by now.”

“I’m just too good at my job, I guess,” Max says. Under the table, he clenches his hands into fists. Mind games, he tells himself. That’s all this is.

“Well, you _ are _ the best of what they have to offer. You know, despite the differences we’ve had in the past, I have always admired you and the work you do,” Charles says, and he almost sounds like he means it. Max knows better. That one time Max had come out of nowhere and captured a Ferrari shipment at the Austrian border, Charles had been fucking _ furious _. The retaliation had been a bloodbath. Max had had to go to ground for weeks. Sure was a funny way to show admiration. “Alex must still be too new to be tired of it, but I can’t blame you for feeling, how do you say it, on a short leash?” Charles tugs at his tie in demonstration.

“I’m not a _ dog _,” Max snaps, then remembers himself and folds his hands nicely on the table. “They know I’m free to make my own moves. I just figured I’d keep my options open.”

“Of course,” Charles assuages, but the corners of his mouth remain curled up in a mocking, catlike grin. “Who can blame you. So — let’s hear this option.”

“Yeah, alright. Here’s the issue, Charles. Ferrari’s product is good. It’s the best of what’s out there, actually, and the demand for it is high,” Max says. He leans forward and prods a finger into the table for emphasis. “But your runners fucking suck.”

It’s a miracle Pierre and Antonio don’t injure themselves with how suddenly they turn their heads to look at him. Max has to keep himself from laughing out loud at the identical looks of panic on their faces. 

“You think so?” Charles asks. He’s lost the grin, at least.

“Come on,” Max says, stifling the urge to roll his eyes. “Mercedes is eating you alive out there. Yeah, you control all the shipping routes into and out of the city, but it doesn’t even matter because every time you try and move anything within city limits, between cities, or across the border, Lewis’ men are on your tail. And half the time you lose the battle because someone makes a bad call and you fuck it up.” 

“Charles, he means — ”

“Shut up, Pierre,” Charles and Max snap in unison. Pierre shuts up so quickly Max hears his teeth click together. Antonio, fidgeting uncomfortably now, keeps his eyes on the tabletop like he wants to burn a hole through it by sheer force of will.

“Meanwhile,” Max continues, “Lewis is out there, using _your_ money to synthesize better product, buy more men, bribe more officials. Soon nobody will be able to compete with him, and that’s bad for Ferrari and for — for Red Bull.”

“For me and for you,” Charles corrects wryly.

“For all of us,” Max maintains, tactfully. And Marko said he lacked subtlety and finesse.

“Okay then,” Charles says, spreading his hands in a magician’s flourish. “I assume you have a solution to this issue?” 

“Yes. It’s obvious. Red Bull and Ferrari form an alliance. Your product, our operations knowledge and network, Toro Rosso’s runners.”

“_Is _it obvious? We seem to be doing just fine without you.” 

“For _ now _ ,” Max scoffs. “You still do enough business that even with the losses you rack up, nobody has the guts and the money to challenge you. But every time Mercedes humiliates you, people talk, and surely you see that money is very easy to get nowadays. For fuck’s sake. Even the _ Americans _ have bought in.”

Charles tilts his head at that, conceding.

“Trust me,” Max says. “You think you may know how to move product, but _ we know _ how to move product. Don’t you ever wonder how we pulled off Austria?”

Max savors the way Charles’ eyes flash dark at the memory, the spasm of anger that briefly distorts his good looks.

“You also didn’t mention what _ you _ would be getting out of this,” Charles says curtly. Seems like he’s struck a nerve, Max thinks. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, smiling for the first time since he’d entered the room.

“You have to agree on the principle first. We can work out the exact terms later. But generally, we will get a cut of the profit, and use of Alfa Romeo’s runners as you have use of Toro Rosso’s.”

Antonio looks like he wants to say something about that, but loses his nerve and stays quiet.

“And why would you want Alfa’s runners? Since your own network is apparently so _ good _.”

“Well, let’s face it, you and Alfa cover more territory than we do. You’re established in cities we aren’t. If we want to expand our operations, using your existing network would be cheaper and faster than building one from scratch. In the end, we both win because Mercedes loses.” 

Charles rests his elbow on the table and traces his thumb across his lips almost coquettishly, but Max can see the pique in his expression. He supposes he should count himself lucky, since the spark of anger in Charles’ eyes is the last thing most people who encounter him see in this lifetime.

“I would say you’ve thought this out carefully, but of course, I expected you to,” Charles says. He puts a finger on the trigger guard of his revolver and spins it around on the table. The weapon comes to a stop pointing right at Max. “And if I refuse?”

“Well, I heard from Lando that McLaren is dissatisfied with their deal with Renault,” Max shrugs, with practiced nonchalance. “And given that Renault is in chaos right now with Hülkenberg’s retirement, I’d say those are two opportunities right there. Even Daniel agrees.”

“Ah, so you’re still … _ talking _ . To _ Daniel _,” Charles says, in a far too insinuatory tone.

“Yes, we still talk, because we’re friends,” Max replies. He refuses to rise to the bait. “It helps to have those.”

“_ We’re _ friends, aren’t we?” Charles says in mock-hurt. Yeah, sure, Max wants to say, if the basis for friendship is mutual annoyance on a good day, hatred at worst, and repeatedly and regularly trying to murder each other in cold blood. Then they’re _ best fucking friends _. Pierre and Antonio look back and forth between their sparring match, counting the volleys, absolutely entranced. “You know Mattia won’t like this at all.”

“Fuck Mattia,” Max says. “He’s old and complacent. He either can’t or won’t see why you’re not doing as well as you should. Promoting you was the smartest thing he ever did.”

“Flatterer,” Charles says. He licks his lips to wet them, and looks at Max from beneath his lashes.

“You started it,” Max says, resolutely willing himself to not punch Charles in the face, or do any number of other terrible things to him. _ God, _but it’s tempting.

“And what about Marko and Christian?” 

“They’ll be angry, sure,” Max says. Which is an understatement, they’ll probably have his balls for breakfast. “But I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself. Besides, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

“Yet here you are, asking me for permission. You could have gone to Kimi with this offer and been done with it by now. He would have sold me out in a heartbeat. You know he’s had bad blood with us, ever since — ”

Everything suddenly happens at once, too fast to register.

There’s a screech of wood on wood, Antonio lunging out of his seat, a glint of metal, a weapon drawn. Max leaps up, pulls his gun, half-turns and fires on pure instinct. The world flashes light, then shakes with thunder — there’s an animal yelp, a splatter of something wet.

Antonio Giovinazzi’s body hits the ground with a heavy thump. The pistol in his hand clatters guiltily over the floorboards. Pierre, having leapt out of his seat, is backed up against the wall, his gaze fixed on the bloody mess on the ground. Over the ringing of his ears, all Max can think is: _ that’s going to be a bitch to clean up _. 

“Pierre. Pierre, _ mon chéri _, look at me, listen to me,” Charles says, gently but insistently coaxing his attention. “When you leave, there will be a car waiting for you outside. I have a doctor on standby, the best I have.”

Pierre looks less startled than resigned — the attitude of someone who’s just done the math and double-checked his work only to find the solution is still correct and still unpleasant. Someone who’s answered his own unasked question and wishes he hadn’t.

“Charles, please,” he says. Max isn’t entirely sure what he’s pleading for.

“I know, Pierre. I’m sorry, but it has to be convincing. You will be okay, _ je promets. _ I will visit you later. Now relax, _ chéri _, it will hurt less,” Charles says. Max stands there, frozen and entranced, as Charles cocks back the hammer on his revolver and without seeming to aim at all, shoots Pierre in the abdomen.

It’s a surgically precise through-and-through — an inch off in any direction and it would have been fatal. Pierre staggers backwards with the force of the shot and lets out an almost inaudible gasp, then puts his hand on his belly, blood streaming through his fingers and blossoming starkly on his white shirt. He locks eyes with Charles for just a moment, then staggers to the door, shoulders it open, and slips out.

The heavy oak door swings shut again, sealing Max and Charles back in the mausoleum-like silence that now reeks of blood and gunpowder. 

Max takes a deep breath, and then another, and another. When he feels calm enough to hold a conversation again, he sticks his gun back in his shoulder holster under his suit, smooths down his lapels, picks up his toppled-over chair, and retakes his seat.

“What. The. _ Fuck _was that,” he hisses.

“_That_ was solving a problem,” Charles says. There’s an unreadable look in Charles’ eyes, something Max would call _remorse_ if he thought Charles was capable of any emotional states other than gloating, self-interest, and flirtation. “Good shot, by the way. You killed him.” 

“You helped,” Max protests.

“No. I shot him. You killed him,” Charles says, looking down at Antonio’s prone form. Max cranes his neck over the table to look. There’s a neat bullet hole dead center on Antonio’s forehead and another one slightly off-center on his chest. Apparently, Max had outdrawn Charles — but the thought doesn’t give him much satisfaction, not when Charles still has one bullet left with his name on it, not when he knows there’s only a fifty-fifty chance he’d be able to pull it off again.

“Tell me what just happened, Charles,” Max demands, digging the heel of his hand into his eye to stave off an oncoming headache. “Why the fuck did you shoot Pierre?”

Charles heaves a deep sigh and steeples his fingers, as much as he can with his gun still in his hand.

“Kimi Räikkönen has been trying to assassinate me for months,” he says. Max blinks at the conversational hairpin, but rolls with it.

“Why?”

“Revenge, mostly. For demoting him, and for what we did to Sebastian.”

“Vettel? What’d you do to him?” The fate of Charles’ predecessor at Ferrari is one of the great unsolved mysteries of the underworld, and a perennially popular topic of speculation on stakeouts and smoke breaks. Just about everyone has a theory to share or a story they’d heard, each one more lurid and sensational than the last.

"Last I heard, they’re still trawling the river for a body,” Charles smiles, all saccharine and sweet, and it does not reach his eyes at all. “That’s what happens when you outlive your usefulness.” 

Max sneers. The Ferrari bastards are all so fucking dramatic. They couldn’t just take someone out back and shoot them like _ normal people do. _ It always had to be some Academy Award-winning production with them.

“So?”

“So, Antonio somehow heard about this meeting and kept asking if he could come, you know, to represent Alfa Romeo, all this bullshit. He’s never been this insistent about anything. Eventually, I figured out that Kimi put him up to it. He wanted Antonio to kill me and blame you for it.”

“Kimi gets his revenge, and a war between Red Bull and Ferrari would be to his advantage,” Max sighs. It’s slowly coming together. “And I assume I would have tragically died in the process.” 

“Precisely,” Charles says.

“But you invited Antonio here anyway.”

“Like I said, I was solving the problem,” Charles says. “Here’s what happened tonight, Max. We had a meeting. During this meeting, Antonio pulled out his weapon and shot Pierre. Seeing him hurt your friend, you killed Antonio.”

Which makes Pierre an innocent victim and Charles justified in going after Kimi. And which makes him, Max Emilian Verstappen, a goddamn fucking idiot. He’d been fucking _ used _ , nothing more than a convenient pawn in Charles’ chess game. When the full realization hits him, he’s angrier than he can ever remember being in his entire _ life _.

“God, you’re an _ asshole _ ,” Max growls. It’s some kind of miracle his voice is so even, because his hands are shaking and there’s molten fire in his veins, and every nerve in his body screams for him to wrap his fingers around Charles’ neck and throttle him to death, to take him apart and _ destroy _him, to —

“Don’t take it so personally,” Charles says, in a near-pout. “It’s just business.”

Max slowly pushes his seat back, scraping it against the floor as loudly and obnoxiously as he can. He stands up and stalks around the table to where Charles is slinkily lounging in his chair like he’s on vacation, spinning his gun around and around an outstretched finger. He braces a hand on the table and looms over Charles, grabs him by the wrist and stops his fidgeting. Charles startles, like nobody’s ever dared lay hands on him before. Probably no one ever had. Max tightens his grip. Charles’ eyes go very wide and his lips part a little, and again Max has to rein in that worst part of him, whispering obscene things in his ear. 

“He told me you’d do something like this,” Max says, more to himself than to Charles. “He’s still fond of you, God knows why, but he warned me, and he’s right.”

A look of confusion spreads across Charles’ face, the doubt creeping in, a drop of ink spreading in the otherwise pristine waters of his utter self-assurance.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Sebastian Vettel, you prick,” Max says. “He’s not dead. You didn’t kill him. He retired all on his own, and now he’s somewhere in Switzerland with his family, away from all _ this _bullshit.”

“How … how did you know that? Mattia never told — ” 

“Apparently he’s better friends with Marko and Christian than he is with you,” Max says. “He sends us postcards and chocolates from time to time. What? He never sends you any goodies?" 

Charles snarls and flexes his wrist, trying to break Max’s grip, but Max is stronger than he is. He bends Charles’ arm back and wrests that beautiful old revolver out of his hand, dangling it mockingly above his head.

“You screwed up, Charles,” Max says. “The only reason you were able to hold off Mercedes at all was because you had Alfa Romeo’s support. But seeing as you just killed their caporegime and started a feud with their boss — I expect Lewis will be making a move immediately, if he hasn’t already.”

“How?” Charles says. “He can’t possibly know what just happened.” 

“Everyone knows Kimi has it out for you. If I were smart, which Lewis is, he’s _ very _smart, I would have prepared for an opportunity just like this. Call your driver.”

“What?”

“Whoever you sent to pick up Pierre. Call them.” 

Charles looks stricken for a second, all his anger suddenly curdled into fear, then scrambles for his phone and punches in a number. The line rings and rings and rings — _ the number you have reached is unavailable _.

“Merde, merde, merde,_ merde!” _ Charles yells. Max laughs unkindly. 

“Mercedes is very thorough,” he says, as Charles tries again and again to the same result. “Valtteri and his men have been staking this place out for weeks now, ever since he first heard that this meeting was happening.”

“How did he even know?”

“Valtteri and Kimi talk. Well, they don’t _ talk _ , they just go drinking together and somehow know things. But Kimi has been funneling him information for months. The point is, Mercedes was prepared for this, and were waiting to catch Pierre by surprise so they could torture the truth out of him. He’s already hurt, thanks to _ you _, so imagine how defenseless he’ll be. You heard what Lewis did to Nico Rosberg a few years back … ”

“No, no, _ no _,” Charles says, looking as panicked and helpless as Max has ever seen him.

“Aw. You really do love him, don’t you?” Max says. It’s touching enough that he decides to let Charles off the hook. “Don’t worry. He’s my friend, too.” Max takes out his own phone. He punches a number on speed dial and this time, it barely rings once before someone picks up. “Alex. Status report.”

“All good here,” Alex says. “They tried to intercept him outside the doctor’s office, but we got away clean. Heading to the safe house now.”

“How’s he doing?” Charles interrupts.

“He’s fine. All patched up. I don’t know what kind of painkillers they shot him up with, but it’s better than listening to the radio, that’s for sure.”

“Thanks, Alex. Hold position once you get to the safe house. Toss this phone, I’ll come by later with instructions,” Max says.

“Copy that,” Alex says, and hangs up.

“Where are you taking him?” Charles asks.

“Maybe if you’re nice to me, I’ll tell you_ . _ You can bring him flowers or something.”

“This isn’t funny.” 

“No, it _ isn’t _ , Charles,” Max snaps, his dulled annoyance suddenly coming back full force. “Let’s see. You invited someone in to kill you, killed him, started a feud with your closest ally, shot Pierre and nearly got him captured, and now the most powerful cartel in the city is waiting to move in the minute you slip up. Which you will, because you’re good but nobody is _ that _good. And now you don’t have the support to fight them. All because you wanted to prove a point about how clever you are.” 

“Okay,” Charles says venomously. “I was stupid, and I fucked up. You were right. Is that what you want to hear?”

“No, actually,” Max says, though hearing those words from Charles _ is _immensely satisfying. They’ll certainly keep him warm on his next midwinter midnight stakeout. “What I want to hear is that you’ll take the deal I offered you, because now you can’t afford not to.”

A muscle jumps in Charles’ jaw as he clenches his teeth. He’s silent for awhile, thinking no doubt of any other possible ways he could squirm his way out, but it’s no use. Max has him cornered. And Charles might have his head so far up his own ass he’s seeing daylight out of his own mouth, but he’s at least smart enough to know when he’s been beaten.

“Fine,” Charles spits, though it sounds like he’s anything but. “I accept your deal.” Max very magnanimously doesn’t gloat, not even a bit, and then they shake on it. Charles snatches his hand away as soon as he can, like a kid touching a hot stove. “Now get the fuck out." 

He slumps back into his chair, arms folded and sulking. If looks could kill, Max thinks, he would be stone dead. Charles’ pale eyes are practically incandescent with fury, and his mouth is twisted into an ugly expression that cuts up his otherwise handsome face. Gone is the perfectly polished veneer of sophistication and control. This is Charles at his most vulnerable, a kitten in the land of lions, all bravado and impotent rage.

It pisses Max off, it pisses him off _ so fucking badly _, because he knows Charles is going to run home tonight with his tail between his legs and do the whole self-pitying act, and Mattia and all his consiglieres are going to say nice things and soothe his ego, and tomorrow, Charles will be sauntering around all high and mighty again, lording it over them like he’s royalty by blood and not just by name. Because he’s nothing but a brat at the end of the day, and a sore loser on top of that.

And that, Max thinks, is the difference between them. 

Charles had arrived seemingly out of nowhere, an Alfa Romeo man promoted at all of twenty-one years old. Pulling all these flash moves, getting into firefights in broad daylight, walking right into the middle of Mercedes territory like some kind of avenging angel and razing their warehouses to the ground before everyone could even pick their jaws up off the ground. He’s brave, certainly. Recklessly so. Ferrari had seen fit to crown him _ Il Principe _ based on his sheer audacity alone.

But Max has been in this game for a long, long time. He knows how you _ really _win. See, the truth is, the secret routes that give his runners such an advantage are just the result of Max becoming intimately familiar with every storm drain and abandoned subway tunnel within the city, every shepherd’s path and old smuggling route without. It’s memorizing train schedules and bus routes and shipping lanes, it’s making allies in every sleepy hill town from here to the border willing to help you out. It’s experience and effort and exhaustion and tedium, it’s years and years of late nights and early mornings. It’s fucking up spectacularly and escaping death by inches, it’s being shot and stabbed and tortured, it’s being chewed out and demoted and repromoted. It’s dirty, it’s gritty, it’s bloody.

Charles has yet to understand that, cooped up as he is all day, giving orders from his throne while being fawned over by his contingent. He can hide it behind tough words and expensive suits, but until he puts in the work and earns his scars, until he cuts up that pretty, pretty face of his, then he’s just playing make-believe in his Hollywood world. 

And Max, well, he’s just _ dying _ to teach this beautiful little prince a lesson about walking around with an attitude he’s not entitled to. He’s going to make sure that Charles knows who’s on top in their new alliance, so that he doesn’t _ ever _ try to pull some shit like this again.

“One more thing before I go, Charles,” Max says, casually, as if an afterthought. “You owe me an apology.”

Charles flips him off. 

“It’s only fair. You dragged me into your business without having the decency to ask me first,” Max says. “It’s rude.”

“Whatever,” Charles says, looking at the floorboards and scowling. “Sorry.” 

“Not good enough, Charles,” Max says, and draws Charles’ revolver out of his pocket. He disengages the cylinder — there it is, one bullet left, just like they said — sends it spinning with his thumb and snaps it back in with a flick of his wrist. He puts himself right in Charles’ personal space, close enough that he can see fine flecks of dried blood misted on his skin, and presses the gun against the crook of his jaw.

_ Now _he has Charles’ undivided attention. A thirty-two caliber at point-blank range usually has that effect.

“Not so fun when the tables are turned, is it?” Max says. He slowly traces the weapon across Charles’ pale, smooth skin, coming to rest on his lips. Charles fights him, squirming around, but Max grabs him by the hair to keep him still and wedges the tip of the gun between his teeth, prying his jaw open by force.

Charles’ noise of protest turns into a sick retching sound as Max shoves in, hard. He tries to thrash out of his chair, but Max pins a knee on Charles’ hip and catches his wrists in his free hand, bearing the entire weight of his body down to keep Charles still.

“Well? Come on, Charles, say you’re sorry.”

Charles closes his eyes, distancing himself from his own humiliation, and sets about apologizing.

“Yeah, that’s right. Thinking you’re better than me. But you’re not, Charles. You’re just a kid in a nice suit, in way over your head,” Max says, running his mouth, letting out everything he’d had to hold in for the sake of _diplomacy_, poking and prodding. “And you’ve just been lucky so far, and you pray every day that you’ll get lucky again, because you don’t really know what you’re doing, do you? You act so brave, but you’re scared to fucking death, aren’t you?”

Charles half-whines and goes lax, not even trying to resist anymore. It tells Max everything he needs to know. 

“Oh, yeah, that’s right, fuck yeah,” Max says mockingly. The parody of the act is somehow more obscene than the act itself, Charles’ mouth red like cherry wine, the polished silver of the barrel shining in the low light of the room. “Fuck yeah, yeah Charles, so good, you’re so good — ”

His taunting words of encouragement rise as Charles keens in the back of his throat, his whines growing sharper and louder, his movements becoming sloppy and desperate. Max cocks the hammer on the gun and Charles’ eyes fly open, his pupils blown, anger and adrenaline and shame and arousal — 

“That’s right, baby, look at me,” Max says, and pulls the trigger.

_ Click. _

The firing pin comes down on an empty chamber, and Charles wails and shudders, a dark stain spreading on the front of his pants. Max laughs, and laughs and laughs as he drops Charles’ gun on the ground. 

Charles sits there, slumped in his chair, shell-shocked and epiphanic. Never has he looked more like something right out of a Renaissance painting, and it fucking lights Max up inside, knowing he’s _ never _going to be afraid of Charles again no matter what stories he hears about the Prince.

“Apology accepted. We’re gonna do great things together, Charles. I can’t wait,” Max says, and steps over the body on the ground, and passes through the door, and exits back onto the streets, the sound of the city welcoming him back.

**Author's Note:**

> shrug emojis my way into the sunset
> 
> anyway, i hope everyone enjoyed this vehicle for gratuitous worldbuilding, gratuitous convoluted plot, and gratuitous sex. i’d say honk if u want more of this AU but you’ll be honking for a real long time because i’m terrible and will probably never get around to it, whomp.
> 
> the usual: this is pure fiction and please do not involve the real world, the real people, the reality, etc. in this. and thanks to you, dear reader, as always!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [we do it nice 'cause we do it twice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20718092) by [babypapaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babypapaya/pseuds/babypapaya)


End file.
